


Kiss of the Blade

by LadyTP



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Erotic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, Major Character Death (Implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How different things would have been if Sandor would have acted just a few seconds too late on the day at the battlements when Joffrey showed Sansa her father's head? What would have happened to Sandor? And what about Sansa?</p><p>Examination of consequences; what they could have been for these two people. AU taking place at the end of GoT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man Who Cried

**Author's Note:**

> I first wrote this story in the 2nd round of LJ’s sansa x sandor Sansan Russian Roulette for Starbird1’s prompt “Sansa catches Sandor shedding manly tears, circa KL, pre-BBB”. The challenge had a world limit and the original entry topped exactly 700 words. However, the story refused to go away and just stirred and churned inside me - it simply demanded for something more and I just _had_ to write it… 
> 
> So here it is, coming in four chapters. Please heed the tags – this story is not all about rainbows, kittens and sunshine…
> 
> None of these characters belong to me, but they and all the rights belong to George RR Martin - obviously.

                                                                                             

Sandor couldn’t tell how much time had passed. In the impenetrable darkness of black cells – how aptly were they named! - whether it was day or night made no difference. All that surrounded him was dampness, smell of rotten straw, faint sounds of creatures of the night rustling in the corners of the small room, and an overbearing air of desolation. Had it been days, weeks, months?  

\----------

In nothingness his head was filled with memories and regrets. Questions too. He wished there had been something else – even pain and torture – as nothing could have caused him more agony than to face his own thoughts. What the fuck had compelled him for such monumental madness? What a bloody fool had he been in rushing to save her – and why?

All his life the Hound had taken pride in his pragmatism. He did what he was told, or if following his own counsel, what _needed_ to be done. No rash actions or follies other men fell for whether it was in their quest for honour, search for a cunt or because of their greed. No, not the Hound. He didn’t care about things that drove other men. He laughed at the pitiful beings who showed their need openly. Fools! Only a man who didn’t crave for anything was free.

So why had he let all that go on that faithful day when everything the Hound represented had dissolved into dust in one senseless moment?

\----------

He had known that the Northern girl was up to something from her intense stare that hadn’t even bothered to hide the hate she felt towards her tormentor. That, and the determined look on her face had woken the Hound’s finely honed instincts and had stirred him to move even before she had. He could be surprisingly fast for a man of his size when he wanted to, as many opponents he had taken by surprise in a battle could have testified, had they still been alive. And that one intuitive step had made all the difference.

Sandor could still see the whole scene playing in front of him as in a slow motion; the girl throwing herself against Joffrey’s chest almost as to embrace him, but instead pushing them both over the ledge. Joffrey’s stupefied face and his astonishment turning into shock when he lost his balance. The swirl of the girl’s skirts, a long wisp of her auburn hair whirling in the wind, her narrow shoulders hunched as she concentrated all her force towards one goal and one goal alone. _To kill._ The girl was a wolf for certes.

Sandor had reached for them _– for her –_ and yanked her to safety at the last moment by her arm. It had felt thin and fragile in his hand but he had grabbed it hard and squeezed it until the girl had yelped from pain. A sickening thump had conveyed Joffrey’s fate and he didn’t even have to look over the parapet to know that the newly crowned king was dead. He did that anyway, and saw his charge lying in a slowly growing pool of blood. How well matched was his attire of red and gold with the dark crimson that was bleeding his miserable little life out of him, Sandor remembered thinking at the time.

\----------

Soon enough Sandor had found himself in the dungeons, Cersei’s screams still in his ears. _”I want him dead, I want him hanged, I want it NOW!”_ No wonder; he _had_ failed his duty in the most spectacular way and deserved to die. What good is a sworn shield if it doesn’t shield from harm? Not that he had ever given any vows to Cersei or Joffrey, not even to the head of House Lannister. Lord Tywin had been wise enough not to press him and so it had been. None of that of course made any difference when the lioness wanted revenge for her cub, vows or not.

Yet it didn’t matter - nothing mattered.

Except that he had saved her.

\----------

Sandor didn’t want to dwell on his reasons too much. They mattered neither. Yet as time passed and he had tried and miserably failed to clear his mind of everything, little trails of thought started to make their way into his head. How she had looked the first time he had laid his eyes on her on that cold northern day in the main yard of Winterfell. An excited girl-child, a highborn’s get and undoubtedly as brainless as all the young maidens at the court, hardly worth a second glance. Yet he had looked at her again. And again. And again, all those long days on the Kingsroad, and later in King’s Landing.

In the beginning he had been curious. How someone could be so completely devoid of guile had intrigued him. He had suspected it was just a ruse and he had watched her in an attempt to catch her, to be able to sneer at her and judge her to be the same as all stupid girls.  

Sandor never caught her out. And after escorting her from the Hand’s tourney and experiencing her reaching into _his_ world, things had changed. He was not a watcher anymore, not an outsider lurking in the shadows, but her recognition of him and his pain had drawn him into her sphere whether he willed it or not.

Still he didn’t know what it was that he sought of her. That he could never _get_ anything, he knew perfectly well - the Hound was not a complete fool. Yet even a want not fulfilled is a want just the same. He never figured out what it was and in the end, who cared if he did?

\----------

 Sandor was convinced that the Stark girl was too valuable hostage to be punished. Aye, Cersei’s fury would fall upon her and the Queen would want her penalised in a most horrid way, but Lord Tywin was much too shrewd to allow a loss of such a precious pawn. What had happened, had happened, and Lannisters still had another whelp to put on the throne.

Yes, the little bird would be severely reprimanded, have all her privileges taken away and be confined in solitary captivity for a time. And eventually she would marry King Tommen, as the North had to be kept close to the crown by any means necessary.

Oddly the thought gave Sandor comfort. Tommen was a sweet boy, nothing like his cruel brother. _Better him than Joffrey._

Tossing on his thin bedding in a futile attempt to get sleep Sandor found himself imagining her in years to come. First she would be betrothed and then married as soon as Cersei could be managed not to sabotage her son’s wedding with her wrath. It would take a few years before Tommen would grow up to fulfil his duties as a husband. Would the little bird get restless while waiting to become a woman for real? She had already flowered and had curves in all the right places. Her head was probably still filled with songs and chivalrous notions of courtly love for now – but would the harpies in the court whisper into her ear about the other ways of love? Would she become curious and seek to satisfy it by explorations with other young maidens?

Sandor had heard some noble ladies doing that when growing up in a bawdy court and yet being constrained by their position. He hardened at the thought. He had never cared for young girls and in brothels he had always sought out older, more experience whores. That some men wanted young ones, even children, he had never understood and regarded those men with contempt.  

Yet the notion, once it had entered his head, was difficult to get rid of. Despite the grim surroundings the urges that usually hadn’t interfered with his life any more than any other bodily functions - like pissing when one’s bladder was full - suddenly demanded his attention. What did he have to lose? What did he care?

Sandor was disgusted at himself and yet he revelled in the intense pleasure of taking himself in hand while picturing her. The girl was a woman, for Stranger’s sake, and ripe for plucking! That it was to be sweet Tommen who would have the pleasure of taking her maiden’s gift was a double-edged sword; better him than Joffrey or some other heartless bastard, but as ridiculous as it was and as well he knew that he would be the worst possible choice for the girl, Sandor couldn’t help wishing it could have been him.

As he spilled his seed on a sodden mattress he reflected on the fact that never again would he lay his eyes on her, and never could she even imagine that she had been his dirty secret in the dungeons of the Red Keep. Sandor sneered at that. Mayhap she would remember him differently? He liked to think so and conceded that he could even live with a notion of being mistaken for a noble knight rescuing fair maidens, if it meant that she would sometimes turn her thoughts on him. _The nasty hound she once petted and which rescued her life in return._

Then he remembered his predicament and choked a mirthless chortle. _Don’t have much time to live anyway._

\----------

Usually after Sandor had reached his grim satisfaction he found himself once again imagining the girl’s future. She would become a woman and Tommen would be kind to her – that boy couldn’t hurt a fly, and if he showed even half the kindness to his lady wife than to those blasted kittens, little bird would be well served. In time her belly would swell and she would give birth to babes with red and golden hair and big blue eyes. She was bound to be maternal type with all her concerns and kindness towards even those who didn’t deserve it – like a vicious dog who had only barked at her.

Yes, she would find her joy in the love for her children and their love for her. Time would heal the wounds and although she could never forget or forgive the cruelty of the Lannisters towards her and her kin, she would find satisfaction in her domestic life. Cersei would never stand for another woman usurping her influence as the queen so the little bird would likely be left in peace, forgotten in her rooms with her growing brood. After all, the royals would have a claim and link to the North through her and that was all they cared about.

The picture of the girl, plump and matronly and babes hanging off her skirts, made the Hound grin. It was a lopsided sneer that was gone as soon as it had appeared.

\----------

As time went by in an unbroken tedium he found himself trapped in a never-ending cycle of thinking about the girl, her womanly shape and those luscious pink lips, followed by a feeling of strange longing to which he had no other way to relate but with a quick work with his hand. He grunted as he imagined it was her soft body he spilled himself into and not a flea-infested straw mattress. Afterwards he felt calm and serene and life made sense for a little while - until his mind drifted back to her. Sometimes she was young and maidenly, sometimes mature and motherly, but always enticing, a small smile playing on her lips.

\----------

“Time for your execution, dog!” The gaoler’s jeering announcement was followed by creaking of hinges as the old door tried loudly to resist any attempts to push it open. Sandor blinked his eyes in the bright light of the lantern. He couldn’t say if he had been sleeping or only lying listlessly on the floor as he did most of the time. It was all the same anyway. His joints ached from persistent coldness in the dungeons and he rubbed his feet with sweeping, steady movements to get his blood flowing. The man’s cheerfulness didn’t elicit any response in him – he wasn’t sure if he would have even been able to croak anything intelligible after having been silent for so long.

He got slowly to his feet, feeling dizzy from having been forced to lie prone for the majority of his captivity, sustained on meagre portions. The cell had been too small for any exercise – and besides, why would he have tried to keep up his strength anyway? He knew better than anyone how unescapably forfeited his life was and how there was no future for him. Nonetheless it irritated him at no end how once mighty warrior had been reduced to a pitiful wreck shuffling slowly like an old man, hindered by the fetters the gaoler had adorned him with. Sandor cursed and swore that he would not falter at the scaffold. It gave him something to focus on and gradually as they wound their way from the lowest levels higher and higher, some of his strength gradually returned.  

He wondered if _she_ would be there, forced to watch him die? He didn’t care the slightest what the manner of his death was or who were going to be in the audience, but one thought consumed him: Would he see her one last time?

Yet surely the dog’s execution was going to be a hasty affair with only a small number of witnesses as required by law? He wasn’t sure which he preferred; to see her once more or to be assured that she was not forced to face one more atrocity, when she had already seen too much for a lifetime. In the end he shrugged his shoulders – it was not for him to decide and his wishes were as futile as they had ever been. He might have wished for many things when he had been young – but he had grown out of it.

\----------

First Sandor was escorted into a bare room just below the ground level. Two other men were waiting for him there with scrubs, buckets of water and clean clothes. _The stench of the dog must not insult the noses of the highborn,_ he reckoned darkly, though he didn’t really mind. It was good to shed away the filth of his captivity and feel like a man again.

Their next stop was a low unadorned building next to the main courtyard of the Red Keep. He knew that to be where those sentenced to the gallows spent their last moments on earth – he had escorted many sorry bastards there himself. From the small window at the back of the stone-walled hut he caught a glimpse of a scaffold, so freshly made that wooden planks were still seeping dark sap. He was surprised. What had happened to putting a dog down behind the stables as it deserved?  

He didn’t care for his escort who had kept respectful distance all throughout their traverse. Yet now Sandor turned and searched the man’s round face for an explanation.

“Once the sun is at its highest your heads will be chopped off with the same sword that did her father. Keeping it in the family,” the gaoler heckled as he pushed Sandor inside and slammed the heavy iron door shut, the tremor of the impact reverberating through the small space for the longest time.

 _The fuck?_ Sandor’s head swivelled to his left and there she was, a frail form leaning against the wall of the neighbouring cell. The two spaces were separated only by crudely forged iron bars reaching from the floor to the ceiling, and she was standing in the corner furthest away from him.

It was her, there was no mistaking it. Auburn hair, slim built and yet taller than most girls. Her face was thin and pale and her features drawn, and as he drowned into the deep blue of her eyes something inside the Hound broke.

_Fuck!_

A strange sensation burned like a fireball behind his eyelids and a force he was helpless against defeated even his tried and tested defences.

As Sansa Stark stared at him in muted surprise, Sandor Clegane wept.

 


	2. Her Lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the second chapter, a slight deviation from the original 700-word ficlet starting to emerge. 
> 
> I am well aware that most readers may not want the sadness this story conveys and that is absolutely fine - this was just something I felt strongly pulled towards. As much as I too love happy endings and joyous fics, sometimes reading/writing sad is beautiful in its own right...

                                                              

“I am so sorry!” she repeated over and over again, stooping across the partition. Her hands sought to reach him through the bars, fluttering around like mad butterflies when she couldn’t make the contact.

Sandor refused to look at her, holding on to a denial while his broad shoulders shook from the effort of trying to gain control over his emotions. _No they can’t. They fucking can’t._ He hated himself for showing weakness in front of the one person who deserved more. He willed his tears to stop and cursed his helplessness all the while a rage as he had not known before grew inside him. He had lost it, had become a weakling who deserved to be culled. Just as well they were going to kill him.

Finally Sandor won the battle for his self-control but it was a bleak victory. After regaining a sliver of his composure he stared at the girl in disbelief, a life-long habit making him to register what his eyes told him even if his sight was still shrouded by the sheen film of his undoing.

Her face was an image of terrible sorrow and regret, and pale – so pale. Dark shadows under her eyes told their story of unslept nights, and sharp collarbones and hollow cheeks that of uneaten meals. Her hair was matted and dishevelled but not all shine had left it, and the rays of sun streaming through the window caught it in a brilliant flash.

Finally her words stirred Sandor and he realised he had to say something, _anything_. To his surprise his voice was strong if somewhat coarse.

“Fuck that, little bird. I am sorry that _I_ failed you,” he croaked.

“No, you didn’t fail me. You _saved_ me.” Sandor had still not moved closer and she gave up, her arms falling helplessly to her sides. She was beautiful still, almost ethereal in a way that he had thought only fairies could be, when he had been young and naïve and had still believed in fairies. And in honour. And in knightly values. All that had drained away from him in the relentless tide of times but he still remembered the fairies.

One of them was now standing in front of his very eyes. She looked at him straight and the sight of his burned face clearly did nothing to deter her. She sought his gaze and demanded his attention in a way she had never done before. Yes, she had looked at him squarely before, but this was more than that.  She _commanded_ him.

“You deserve better. If you have to die, you earned to do so in the battle, killing your enemy.” As he talked Sandor understood that he might have saved her life, but at what cost? She had been ready to sacrifice herself gladly for a chance to avenge her father and remove the threat to the rest of her kin. She had been no brainless little bird although Sandor had first judged her so. There would have been no reason for her brother to seek to free her if she, too, was dead. And Joffrey fucking Baratheon would not have been able to wage a war that was as stupid as it was futile. _She wanted to prevent all that._

He knew how it was to prepare to die in a battle; he had done it himself many times. Sought solace in meaninglessness of life and how it didn’t matter whether he lived or died, only cleansing his mind and focussing on what lay ahead. Sworn that should he fall no enemy would get him alive, as he would keep on fighting until his last breath.  Had the wolf-girl done the same, this unlikely warrior? And he had destroyed it by allowing her to be taken a prisoner to be tormented and humiliated by her enemies?

“You were ready to die that day, and you should have been free to do as you wished. Enter the other side like a warrior you showed yourself to be. Not on a block like this.” Sandor gestured in the direction of the scaffold trying hard to control his despair and his rage. “I took that away from you, the only thing you had left. I am sorry, little bird.”

Without realising he had stepped closer to the bars and she reached for him once more and clutched his clenched fist between her hands. Her hands were cold but their skin was soft. Sandor studied them; how her slender fingers twined between his, forcing his fist to open when he reluctantly yielded to her. Absurdly he noticed that her fingernails, previously so neat and clean, were now ragged and lined with dirt.

“But you _gave_ something to me. You let me know that I had at least one friend here, someone who cared whether I lived or died. Someone who thought I was worth something.” She pressed her fingers under his chin and forced it gently up. It was the second time she had laid her hand on him and the touch sent shivers through Sandor’s body; like little sparkles from embers shooting out of the fireplace. Yet unlike real fire this did not terrify him but on the contrary; he leaned to her touch and slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. Her expression was pleading but she also looked strangely radiant as she regarded him. Sandor could have submerged himself into those eyes and never come up again – and a part of him did just that.

“Little bird,” he rasped.

\----------

Sandor knew they wouldn’t have too long before it was time for the block. At noon, the man had said, and from the angle of the sun he deduced it to be already at least mid-morning. Heavy footsteps going back and forth as well as low voices from outside told him that at least two guards had been placed outside the door. Besides them there was nobody else and unlikely to be until they would be escorted to their last walk. It was customary to leave the condemned to atone their sins, so he knew that they would be left alone until then.

Looking at her the time he had spent in darkness dreaming of her disappeared into nothingness and yet filled him to the brim. All his thoughts of her. The serene; assured in the knowledge that she would be safe and live a long life surrounded by the blood of her blood and that of the North. The twisted; fuelled by a sick drive that saw his mind roam freely in the curve of her hip and that of her breast while remorselessly stroking himself.

In either incarnation the girl he had remembered had been a mere girl-child innocent of the ways of the world, but the one in front of him now was a woman, forged in the fires of pain and suffering.

Sandor played with her thumb, stroking it with his own thumb and forefinger. “But why? What the fuck is Lord Tywin about? You are a Stark.”

The girl shrug her shoulders almost imperceptibly. “Queen Cersei wants me dead. She offered him something he wanted more than he could get from me.”

She hadn’t withdrawn her hand and seemed content to let it rest in Sandor’s grip. It, like everything else in her, appeared so small and fragile against his calloused skin.

“Tonight after all this is over,” she turned and her eyes lingered at the window where the shadow of the scaffold could be seen, “there is going to be a big celebration in the Great Hall. Lord Tywin will announce the betrothal of Queen Dowager Cersei to Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden.”

Sandor winced, remembering how besotted the girl herself had been with the bloody Knight of the Flowers.

“Is that it?”

“Tomorrow King Tommen releases Ser Jaime from the Kingsguard and he leaves for the Casterly Rock. There is talk about another grand marriage, to House Martell. Prince Doran’s eldest daughter Arianne is a worthy prize.”

Sandor understood it now, too well. Two grand marriages into powerful houses who were likely to join Lannister cause – against one forced marriage where the kinship had already been broken beyond repair. Cersei had played her cards well. For a brief moment he wondered how she had made Jaime to do her bidding, but then shrugged it out of his mind. The Queen had always had her way with the bloody Kingslayer.

“How do you know all this?”

“Oh, people talk. My cell was close to the kitchens and many times the kitchen maids set themselves up right outside my window to peel potatoes, shell peas or to do other such chores. They like to talk when they work, they really do.”

They had frozen on their spots, she leaning against the iron curtain separating them with her thin hand pushed through the bars, Sandor standing as close to her as he could, holding it.

 _All this time when I thought she was resting on a featherbed, she was kept in a cell at the back of the keep._ The thought seemed sacrilegious – it _was_ sacrilegious. His anger returned even though he knew how futile it was.

“They talked about many things. Even about you.” Sansa stared at their joined hands when she spoke. “And me.”

Sandor could guess the gist of idle gossip after having lived in the court for so long. Too bloody long. He didn’t want to ask her about it, hoping that she hadn’t paid any attention to whatever had been said. It was sure to be nothing pretty if it involved him. The little bird didn’t seem to be too perturbed though.

“They said the dog wanted something that belonged to his master. And that it was the reason why he bit the master’s hand.” Her words were matter-of-fact, not scandalised as he would have expected.

“Is that what they say? Tongues wagging, nothing more. Pay no heed to that,” he muttered.

Her grip on his fingers tightened. “But I know why you did it. It was not because of the… things they said.”

Gods, a bunch of kitchen wenches sharing gossip…more likely than not most of the talk had stayed firmly under skirts. Sandor knew that women, when left on their own devices, could use just as coarse language as men. Perhaps even worse. He found himself hoping that the talk had not put her off too much. _Not a bloody shining knight any longer if she thinks that all I wanted was to get into her smallclothes._

He didn’t really want to know. “Well that makes one of us who does. I don’t have a bloody idea why I did such a stupid thing. A moment of insanity, mayhap.”

She raised her hands to his face, one on either side, and held his head firmly between them forcing him to look straight at her. Sandor couldn’t turn away although it would have been easy for him had he wanted; her grip was not strong, only soft.

“You did it because you are a good man. You saved me because there is inherent goodness in you, although you try to deny it.”

Sandor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the end he did neither but snorted loudly. “A good man? You don’t know what you are talking about, girl. I have never been good and never will. I am a killer and my soul is as black as there is.”

She didn’t let go of him and took his bark in her stride, smiling softly. “You think _you_ are bad? I have seen evil and it is not you.”

Sandor pushed away and cursed. “You don’t know me, girl! You think a few kind words make me good, or an act of mindless insanity virtuous? Well, you are wrong! If you’d know what I have thought of you in the dark cells and the filthy dirty notions in my head, you’d turn away screaming.”

He strode back and forth in that narrow space, fuming how the stupid girl could still be so naïve. After all she had gone through she should have learned to let go of her belief in goodness in people.

“Did those wenches say _why_ they thought the dog wanted his master’s toy? To fuck her bloody, to take her as his own plaything? I am sure that’s what the chatter is around the court. Does it shock you? Does it, little bird!?”

She only stood there and watched her quietly, and after a while Sandor started to feel silly about his outburst.

“I don’t care what people say. I only care about what I see, and know.” There was no mistaking it; she smiled at him. It transformed her gaunt face to the one he remembered; lovely, full of life.

Sandor stared at her defiantly but when she signalled him to come closer he followed her lead blindly. Her presence drew him towards her like a harvest feast pulls a starved beggar in hope for some scraps from the table. That was more or less how he felt, hoping for scraps of her kindness – but yet protesting against his own need.

Once facing her again Sandor lifted his hands towards her face, but a sharp pull and a clank of metal reminded him about his fetters. The highest he could reach was to her collarbones, and frustrated he gave up and let his hands drop.

Reading his intentions perfectly the girl kneeled on the dirty floor allowing him to reach her, not minding the least the indignity or the grime and soot under her knees. Her eyes looked up at him and Sandor’s hands found her, lingered on her cheeks and drew the line of her jaw with his fingertips. It was like touching finest porcelain, much too fragile for the likes of him who was more used to hold sharp steel in his grip. So fine, so delicate – he could see the shadow of the vein on her throat through her skin.

Sandor didn’t care why she was doing this, whether it was pity or some foolish notion of a fair maiden granting a favour to her saviour – what a bloody fine saviour he had been! She would get up soon and he would never have this change again so he better use the opportunity to its fullest.

Her lips… full and red, slightly chapped. He had seen them a hundred times, curved into a shy smile when her heart had yet been full of hope and excitement. Later they had been pressed into a thin line, or when her self-control had betrayed her, into a sad frown. Sandor drew his thumb over her lower lip and was stunned when she opened her mouth and let it slip between the neat row of small white teeth. The sight stirred him and woke the beast within, bringing back the endless hours he had spent thinking of this – and more.

Her position right in front of him, on her knees, was much too suggestive and Sandor’s cock stiffened even before the thought had fully formed in his head. She was so close, all she would have to do was to lean down a bit and open that sweet, sweet mouth of hers…

 


	3. To See, To Touch

                                         

Of course she noticed Sandor's arousal – his condition was far too obvious in the loosely fitting peasant trousers he was wearing. Her eyes rounded when she noticed the bulge and then darted away, nervously.

“A good man, eh? I am about to die in a few moments but my cock doesn’t care. Have an eyeful of that, girl, and tell me again I am a good man.” His tone was mocking. Surely this would teach her that he was as bad as ever, not worthy of her unfounded praise.

She was disconcerted, that much was clear, and flushed too. Part of Sandor revelled in her discomfort, but another rued his cock that seemed to have a life of its own even at this inopportune moment.

Sansa got up slowly, side-eyeing him as she rose. She didn’t move away though, only swiping straw and dust away from her skirt. She paid meticulous attention to this task and Sandor simply stood there, not even bothering to hide his persistent hardness.

Eventually she sighed and straightened herself to her full height and looked at him again. “That…” a vague gesture to his nether regions, “is not being bad. It’s a natural thing and it happens to all men, good and bad alike.”

“When have you become such an expert on men’s cocks?”

“I told you the maids talked a lot.” She defied him now openly, refusing to be cowered by his scorn. “I know what happens between men and women. You may have forgotten but I was also betrothed and expected to marry soon. I was told about things.”

Sandor was amused. _Bold bird!_ Her stance changed soon though, her unflinching expression turning into a sorrowful look.

“I will of course never know the reality of it now. I will die a maid.”

Was there a sigh in her tone? Did she have regrets of the matter? Was it possible that such a fine lady as she had actually looked forward to that beastly act?

“You were counting the days until you would be properly fucked, were you?”

A shadow crossed her face and she frowned, a ghost of the prim and proper young maid she had once been showing itself. “Of course not! Why do you have to be so crude?”

“I am what I am, not some bloody prancing prince or a shining knight. Like the ones you probably dream of while thinking about those things.”

The sad look returned and she sighed. It was almost as she had decided that time was too short for disagreement. “I have dreamt, that much is true. But not of princes or knights.”

“Some strapping soldier then got your attention? With a handsome face and a lithe body?”

“No… there was one other…” Her voice was soft and almost too low for him to hear properly. Sandor tilted his head to catch her words and caught her looking at him under her lashes; not his face but his chest, his arms, even sweeping over his groin where the signs of his arousal were still clearly visible. She blushed.

 _Fucking hells!_   Was it…could it be… She hadn’t been dreaming of _him_ , surely?

All of a sudden Sandor’s throat felt dry as sand and he was lost for words. Any crude remark to follow her admission that she had daydreamt about fucking died on his lips. Suddenly he felt a need to cover himself and he grabbed his cock and forced it down against his leg. _Seven hells!_

\----------

Silence stretched between them but he had nothing with which to fill it. Eventually she stirred and came closer, clasping the iron bars. “I still stand by my words that you _are_ a good man, better than you know yourself. And I am grateful to you for what you did that day. I only wish I could express it to you properly.”

Finally Sandor found his voice. He too grasped the bars just below her hands, almost touching them, and not quite believing his own ears rasped, “Let me look at you, little bird.”

She cocked her head uncomprehending. “I am here. You _are_ looking at me.”

Sandor pointed at her front where the cords of a crude peasant-style top were tied together in clumsy knots. Sansa followed his direction and gazing down at her bosom a deep red suffused her cheeks indicating she had taken in his meaning.

“Oh.”

_What were you thinking, dog? That she undresses for you here and now, only because she might have thought of a man, any man, and thinks that because she is grateful to you it might have been you?_

She lifted her eyes and stared at him standing completely still. If possible her face had gotten even redder, the colour spreading to her throat and the part of her skin visible above the neckline. Against the paleness of her hands, so white because she was clenching the irons so tightly, the difference was striking.

After an interminable time she released her grip and took one step back. Slowly, very slowly, she started to open the fastenings. One by one she went through them, starting from the top. Sandor couldn’t believe what he was seeing and his eyes were fixed at the sight. Her fingers were trembling, he noticed, but a glance at her face revealed grim determination - almost as on that fateful day at the battlements.

He had already concluded that she was much changed. The silliness of a young girl had been rubbed away just like when a skilful carver works with a piece of wood; polishing, smoothing, finding the natural shape of the piece and working his magic into its own shape. She had been childish and naïve once but all that had worn away, leaving behind only her true self; kind and yet strong and courageous.

As enticing the sight of pale flesh peeking from under the coarse cloth was for Sandor, he made a mistake of staring into the intense depths of her eyes where he got trapped and couldn’t look away. He looked into her eyes and she into his, and for the first time he pictured himself as she saw him; an angry, bitter man who nonetheless was lost, lost and wanting to be found. By someone. _By her._

Sansa took one more step back and after last of the knots became loose she took a deep breath and unhurriedly pulled the top open, revealing her nakedness down to her waist. It was Sandor’s turn to inhale sharply as he stared at her teats. They were as shapely and perfect as he had known they would be; firm and perky and yet fully womanly. Her pink nipples had puckered into firm buds but whether it was because of the chill radiating from the stone or something else, he couldn’t tell.

 _Gods she is beautiful._ Sandor almost felt a bang of guilt for asking her to reveal herself to a dirty gaze of a dog. It defiled her, she didn’t deserve this. And yet he couldn’t look away or tell her to cover herself – he only stared, speechless.

After a long while she became restless, fiddling with the cords. “Seen enough?”

Her tone was not sharp but remarkably restrained. There was breathlessness in it and the rise and fall of her chest revealed that she was not quite as calm as she pretended to be. Sandor tore his gaze away from the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. _Come on. Ask it. She can only say no._

“Let me touch you, little bird,” he croaked.

That startled her. She seized the loosely hanging fabric and crunched it into a tight knot in her fist. Her mouth opened, then closed, but she made no sound.

“I swear I only want to touch. A bit. You don’t have to worry about the dog ravishing you – these iron bars will protect you well enough.” As he spoke Sandor realised that this was something he wanted more than anything he had ever wanted in his whole miserable life. To feel her softness against his fingertips. He would die a happy man if he had that. The thought the she would decline, lace herself and turn away because of his insistence scared him but he had to ask.

“Please.”

The Hound had never pleaded with anyone for anything in his life. Never. Even when Gregor had shoved him into the hot coals he had not been foolish enough to beg him for mercy.

“Please.” His voice was broken. He hated his weakness but hated the idea of not having this even more.

Sansa looked mesmerised. She bit her lip and hesitated for a moment.

“If I give you this, will you give me something in return?”

“Anything. Ask anything.” Relief and gratitude filled Sandor. He only hoped it would be in his power to grant her wish, whatever it was. Would she want to look upon him, could that be possible? The chains in his wrists would make it difficult if not impossible to remove his tunic, but… His reckonings were interrupted by her.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Sandor blinked, stunned. _What the hells?_ His astonishment must have been obvious as she continued. “Tell me something you have never told anyone else. Isn’t it only fair that if I give you something I haven’t given to any man, you will give me something you have never given to any woman?”

“What can I tell? There is nothing much to tell. You know me and my story.”

“I know only little. Tell me more.”

While she spoke she took cautious steps towards him, finishing so close to the bars that she was within his reach once again. Probably by instinct she had folded her arms across her chest, but when Sandor extended his hand through the bars towards her she dropped them to her sides.

“Ask me what you will.”

“And you will answer truthfully?”

“A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.”

He folded the fabric away, very carefully, revealing her nakedness to his eyes once again. His forefinger pressed against her skin, which was as soft as it looked. _So soft._

“Who is the man behind the mask of the Hound?”

He followed the line of a translucent bluish vein that run across her left breast. She shuddered.

“The man is the Hound.”

“I refuse to believe it. You were someone else before you became the Hound. Who were you?”

“I was… a foolish boy. Witless runt. I dreamt of knights, of becoming one. Would you believe that, little bird? Me, wanting to be a knight?”

He pressed his other fingers against her heated skin and moved them around the swell of her teat.

“I believe you. And you became one. No, better than a knight.” A soft sigh. “What did you think all those long hours when you stood guard to Joffrey? I watched you sometimes. Did you know _that?_ You always looked so sullen, but nothing escaped your eye nonetheless.”

“I tried not to think. Better that way. One has to empty one’s mind and let nothing in. If you do, it is enough to make you lose your mind.”

He had reached her nipple, the slightly darker circle around it seeming almost out of place against the creaminess of her skin.

“Have you ever had a sweetheart? Someone to call your own?”

The question stopped Sandor just as he was about to cup her whole teat into his palm. Despite his attention being wholly turned to the delicious feel of that supple mound he couldn’t prevent a snort.

“Me? What do you think, girl, haven’t you seen me? No _sweethearts_ for dogs.” He embellished the word, amused how childish her choice of phrase was.

“Please don’t call yourself dog. And your looks are nor here or there. I know that now. I am…“ She exhaled sharply when he rolled his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and continued with strained voice, “…sorry that I was so afraid to look at you earlier. I was foolish.”

Sandor was fascinated by the sensitivity of her nipples. As soon as he touched one, she trembled and her voice faltered. He tried it with her right teat and the effect was the same.

She was quiet for a while and Sandor lost himself to the feel and sight of her. He could just about reach both of her sweetly curved mounds with his hands, although the short chain limited his movements. He closed his eyes for a second to better experience the sensations that overwhelmed him. When he opened them again the sight of his huge hands, scarred and hairy, so coarse and dark, seemed wholly inappropriate against her honey softness. Yet the sight roused him, and the hardness that had never quite gone away reminded him about its existence by almost painful throbbing.

The girl had shut her eyes and leaned her head back, mouth slightly ajar. Her breathing was constricted, short fast gasps synchronised by the heaving of her shoulders. _She… enjoys this?_ Sandor had never seen a woman taking pleasure in bodily acts although he had seen his share of poor imitations. The little bird had no reason to pretend, though.

Just as he laid his palm once again across her soft flesh she spoke.

“Tell me about your hopes, your dreams, of your greatest desires. Please.” The last part was just a whisper and yet her request was a command to him. She had kept her side of the bargain, it was only fair he kept his to the fullest. There was only one problem.

“Bloody hells, girl! What kind of a stupid question is that? Hopes? Dreams? I don’t have any. I didn’t have any. Ever since…” He had to think back on his life. When was the last time his mind had reached for something he truly wished for? He had been careful of not wanting too much, because experience had showed him time and time again that the only result of any such foolishness was even bigger disappointment. And yet…there had been two things.

“Wanted to kill my brother. Aye, that was my dream. To plunge my sword through his black heart and see his lifeblood leaking out. Twist and turn the blade until I could be sure that there was nothing left of that miserable monster.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed and she opened her mouth as to say something but then apparently thought better of it. She nodded slowly, whether in agreement with Sandor’s words or as an indication of her understanding, he didn’t know.

“There was something else I desired. But that is not for me to share now. Or ever.” He had stilled his hands and let them rest against her sides, only his thumbs absentmindedly traveling up and down her ribs. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

Thank the gods she didn’t demand for more information but only stared at him intently. Her hands that had crunched the fabric on her hips while he had focussed on her teats released their grip and the bunched up skirt fell down, crumpled.

Sandor let go of her, reluctantly. She seemed to be finished with her questions; the exchange was over.

“Tell me.” Hardly a whisper.

“No.”

“Please.”

He became annoyed at her insistence. She wanted him to reveal his most guarded secret, something he had hidden even from himself. His whole being protested against that, knowing how vulnerable it would make him.

Sandor looked at her standing there, the living image of innocence and seductiveness at the same time. The dress was all wrong on her; a rough peasant skirt and top of simple cut and crude stitching, made of undyed wool which gave it oddly uneven look. She was like a bright jewel embedded in a crude iron clasp.

His eyes followed the outline of her curves, still visible through the parted front. Her teats had grown and were now fuller, grown-up. He could imagine her as a mother suckling her babes. She was all woman indeed.

He made up his mind and acted before he could give it second thought.

“Show me your cunt.”

She cocked her head and her eyes widened.

“I won’t do anything – I _can’t_ do anything.” He lifted his hands to remind her of the fetters still binding him. “I just want to see it. All you have to do is to lift your skirts and drop your smallclothes.”

Of course he knew he wouldn’t see much even if she for some unfathomable reason would heed his request. To actually catch an eyeful she would have to open her legs for him – and that would surely go too far even in these odd circumstances. Besides, it didn’t matter, he only wanted…

Sandor wasn’t sure what he wanted.

 


	4. The Man Who Smiled

                                                      

“I’ll tell you what else it is that I desire. What I have desired for a long time now.” Tension between them was palpable but he ignored it. _What do I have to lose?_

“You will? Promise me.”

“I will. I promise.”

She swayed on her spot, indecisive. It was strange how closeness of death had removed all codes of behaviour - not that he cared much about them anyway, but the little bird had always been so courteous, so proper. To imagine that he had just asked Lady Sansa Stark to show him her cunt and she hadn’t slapped him for his outrageousness amused Sandor and he couldn’t help a lopsided grin.

Was it his sneer that made up her mind? Did she take it as a challenge to which she had to respond? Whatever it was, she took a deep breath and her hands returned to the folds of her skirt and taking her time she started to inch them higher. Sandor’s eyes were glued to the dusty hem that rose up and up, revealing more and more of her bare legs. She wore no stockings and her skin looked smoother than silk.

Sandor swallowed hard, afraid to make a noise or move. His palms felt sticky and fine droplets of sweat covered his forehead.

Her smallclothes were of finest embroidery – an oversight by her jailors or an acknowledgement of her noble status? Pure white they were, slightly tarnished, but still so maidenly and innocent that Sandor suddenly felt ashamed of asking her this. Not so much as to tell her to stop, though.

The skirt bunched in one hand on her front she awkwardly pulled her undergarments down with the other, tugging the laces loose; first one side, then another, bit by bit. Then the white fabric fell down her thighs and pillowed on her feet. The sight of fine lace resting against coarse floorboards was incongruous and all _wrong_.

She didn’t even try to step out of them but stood still, defiantly. Her nervousness was only visible from the way she licked her lips and flicked back her head. It could have been coquettish by some other girl and in some other circumstances – but not by her, not now.

Sandor stared. Her long legs were well defined and shapely and at their juncture a triangle of finest red hair covered her modesty. She was beautiful – and the thought of what lay behind those fine curls made him swallow hard.

He couldn’t tell why it had been so important for him to see her. It was not about lust, for all that his cock was throbbing so hard that it pained him. Rutting with her would have been impossible because of the iron bars that separated them, just as he had told her. No, he wasn’t after that.

The little bird represented to him all that was feminine; his mother, his sister, all the women who had ever been kind to him, not that there had been many. A sight of a maid smiling to her first love, a sound of a mother cooing to her babe, a touch of a whore, however distracted and practised. Softness and kindness that the gentler sex represented, never at his reach but only spied from afar. To him she was the Maiden, the Mother, the Crone, even the Stranger - the mystery of womanhood. And he had had to see her. And now he felt unworthy, undeserving of the gift she had bestowed on him.

“Your turn. What is it that you desire?” Her tone was soft but composed.

He forced his words out, still reluctant to share his deepest thoughts. He knew he spoke out of turn but the whole situation was beyond bizarre anyway.

“This would be better left unsaid - but since you want to know, girl, here it goes. I wanted _you_. Always you, since the first time I saw you in that sodden courtyard of your father’s house. Took me a long time to realise it though. But mayhap you are not surprised? You are too much of a woman _not_ to have known. Many men looked at you and wanted you. You knew that too, didn’t you?”

“Why did you want me?”

“Why does a man want a woman? Surely you know something of that – having been so well schooled in men and their manners.”

“That?” Her tone was not upset, only curious. She seemed to have forgotten the compromising situation she was in and stared at him with genuine curiosity.

It would have been easy to agree. To let her think he only wanted her like any other man would. Like any other man had. For a quick grope, for a fuck, to satisfy a primal urge.

“No. Not only that.” The words dropped from the tip of his tongue before he could catch them.

Then his feet buckled from under him and he dropped down slowly, like a giant boar after a fatal spear wound. The girl hadn’t moved away and his face ended up right in front of her womanhood. The hair there was finest thread he had ever seen and he gazed in awe at the sight. The lust was still within him, the hot blood coursing through his veins, but he could shut it away and deny its existence for now.

Sandor pressed his head between the iron bars and the hard metal cooled his heated cheeks; the side that felt the cold and the other that only vaguely sensed something pressing against it. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply – and he _smelled_ her.

Musky, earthy aroma wafted into his already sensitised nose and he thought he had never smelled anything quite as intoxicating. It was _her_ , it was her cunt; so maidenly and pure and still as enticing as the richest, headiest wine he had ever tasted. _No, better._

Sandor breathed slowly in and out, deep lungfuls, mindful of trying to hide it less the little bird would get the wind of it and find it repulsive. She was so close that if only the bars would have been set a bit wider, he could have buried his face into the juncture of her thighs.  

For a long time he savoured the moment, hoping it would never end. He knew she must already regret the poor bargain she had agreed to. What is the Hound’s admission, surely known to her by the virtue of her womanly intuition, against the humiliation of letting a dog slaver at her most intimate parts? Hence he wasn’t really surprised when he felt her hand curling against the back of his head. Reluctantly he braced himself against the inevitable and shifted to move away.

And then he felt her caresses. At first tentative, feather light brushes against his hair, her fingers getting caught in its matted knots. Then they gained strength and confidence and stroked the top of his head, his sides, sweeping all the way down to his neck. Her other hand was still fisted against the crunched fabric of her skirt, Sandor’s forehead resting against the coarse weave, but the other brushed through his hair. She didn’t push him away nor pull him closer – she only let the warmth of her fingertips travel down all the way to his core. He leaned into her touch, sighing.

Time didn’t stop. It should have.

\----------

Sandor wished he could have shut the world away but he couldn’t help hearing the murmur of the crowd as it started to gather to the main yard. He glanced at the window and saw that it was almost noon.

Grudgingly he dropped his hand and tugged at the fine lace resting on her foot. She must have felt it as she looked down.

“It is almost time,” he grumbled. She took his meaning and bent down. Their fingers touched when she reached for her garments and he felt a jolt.

Much too soon she had pulled her smallclothes up, dropped her skirt and fastened her top, and Sandor felt the loss of the sight of her acutely in the hollow pit of his stomach. He scrambled up to his feet.

Curiously she didn’t seem the least bit awkward and even more curiously he didn’t feel the usual simmering bitterness he had felt the few times when he had lost the control of the situation. Bloody hells, he had just begged the girl and told her about his most ardent and secret desire – and he didn’t even feel humiliated. The feeling was oddly liberating.

They looked at each other across the divide. Her lips curved into a smile that seemed completely out of place in their situation. She reached across the space between them and hovered her small hand above his chest, just above his heart.

“May I?”

He nodded silently and just as she was about to lay her hand across his chest he tugged the hem of his tunic and pulled it up so her fingers met his bare skin. She startled, but didn’t pull away. The touch of those long fingers against his ribcage made Sandor’s heart hammer in his chest so fast that she must have felt it. She cupped her hand slightly and pressed harder.

“I can feel your heartbeat.” Her sentence ended in an upward tilt almost as if she had presented a question rather than a comment.

“As I did yours.” He had, when he had fondled her teats. It had been frantic like a little bird’s – and that was what she was. Still. _Always._

“I feel like I am holding your heart in my hand.”

“As you do, little bird, as you do.” Sandor couldn’t believe he had just uttered something so soppy, but the quick smile she threw in his direction diminished his irritation.

She played with the hair on his chest but he knew it was not a woman in her seeking to satisfy her curiosity about men. Had they had more time, had there been no iron bars between them… who knew what might have happened? Yet he didn’t begrudge what had not. Aye, he wanted to fuck her, nothing had changed, but somehow what they had shared and what she had given to him, had more meaning. He had had her and she had given herself to him, only in a different way.

Besides, it was no use to think of what could have been. He settled to what he had been offered and that was bloody much more than he deserved or could have imagined even in his wildest dreams.

“I am glad I met you again. I hoped so but couldn’t be sure,” she whispered quietly - but his ears had already attuned to her soft voice.

“Me too, girl. I thought – I wished – to see you in the audience. I never imagined…”

“Shhhh. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we saw each other. That we know each other for true, now.”

“Aye.”

After that there was not much to say. Eventually they slid down against the wall and leaned on it, side by side, holding hands across the partition. They needed no words. They looked at each other in the eye, then at their intertwined fingers, then each other again. Sandor felt at peace and she must have felt the same as the fright he had seen on her face earlier had all but disappeared.

\----------

The rattle on the door alerted them to the arrival of the gaoler. He was not alone but followed by three other guards who were all dressed in their finest garments, ready for the show.

_It is time._

They took her first, as befitting to a lady of her station. At the narrow doorway leading to the courtyard Sandor saw her stop, take a deep breath, square her shoulders and lift her chin before she stepped out. The streaming sunlight enveloped her with its golden shimmer and she was gone.

Sandor had never been more proud of anyone as he was of her that moment. The wolf she was, not the little bird. _No, always the little bird._

\----------

At the scaffold it was his turn to be the first. The Kingslayer was to be the main event, the one everyone had come to see. The Hound was just a teaser, a lesson to all about what happened to those who betrayed the trust of their masters.

He saw her one last time where she was standing at the end of the wooden platform. When her eyes met his they stayed on them unwavering, blue and bold and so very brave, so very wolfish – except for the hint of _his_ little bird invisible to anyone but he. Because he _knew_ her.

When Sandor Clegane bent over and rested his head on the old wooden block he didn’t see the royal party on the hastily erected dais nor did he hear the hum of the audience. All his senses were about _her_ ; his nostrils filled with her musky scent, his ears echoing her low sighs and gasps, his eyes filled with the sight of her baring herself to him, his fingertips still sensing the softness of her skin.

As the distant hiss of the blade sliced the air on its way to meet his neck, Sandor Clegane smiled.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it - this is the end. I guess there is no way to really continue this any further after this, eh?  
> I thank all of you who stayed until the bitter end - I am thrilled to see that there are some readers even for a sad fic! Not that it is my life's purpose from now on, but I have written some rather melancholic stuff and have been drawn towards it even longer... Yet I also promise that not all my future stories will be like that - there is always time for a happy endings too!
> 
> If anyone is interested in reading the small ficlet on which this is based, it can be found in LJ in http://sansaxsandor.livejournal.com/588579.html, or in my Tumblr in http://ladytp.tumblr.com/post/99605159482/kiss-of-the-blade


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